Two Ordinary Women: Living Life Intentionally

By Patricia L Headley

It's the mundane things of life that make us most human, and frankly most interesting.

This book is a series of short stories about two ordinary women-Ruthanne and Pat-their courtship, adventures, and foibles; learning to live and play together; and living life despite adversity.

Pat, a mother of two, e

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patricia L Headley
• Release date: May 29, 2024
• ISBN: 9798990232310

Patricia L Headley

As a camp director for Moingona Girl Scouts, Patricia L Headley was supervising college students, while she had only a high school diploma. This lead her to start thinking about pursuing an education. At the same time, her marriage was ending. With two daughters in high school, she knew she had to get a job or return to school. She chose school. During her second year of college, Pat met Ruthanne and realized her years-long suspicions were true. The two women became friends and eventually partners. Pat knew her life was about to change. Ruthanne encouraged Pat to think beyond the AA degree, and she went on to earn a Bachelor's Degree in Leisure Studies from The University of Iowa, and a Master's Degree in Higher Education from Drake University. Before Pat retired she was a grant writer for Meskwaki Nation-Sac & Fox Tribe of the Mississippi in Iowa. Now Pat focuses on sharing stories from her life.

Book preview

Preface

This book is not about illness, death, and dying, though there is some of that too, which can be expected in any story of one’s life. Rather, this book is about living a full life despite adversity. It’s about two ordinary women, going about their lives, learning to get along in the world, learning to live and play together, learning the myriad challenges of the medical world, and learning how to keep on keeping on. We learned many lessons along the way, but the hardest for me was there’s always tomorrow—until there isn’t.

My late wife, Ruthanne, and I took community education classes; earned higher education degrees; supported multiple theater companies; attended lectures, musicals, museums, art centers, and anything else she found for us to do; all while learning to live together, keeping up with family dynamics, and traveling as much as possible. Then there are all the medical issues we dealt with.

These stories delve into personalities, quirks, accomplishments, disappointments, wonderment, learning, adventure, and a can do spirit. Most of the illness issues will come in my next book, with this one sharing the first fifteen or so years of our lives together.

When asked who her audience would be, author Virginia Wolf said, Ordinary people. I agree with her, and I want this book to be read by ordinary people who might think their own lives too dull to talk about, much less write about.

It’s the mundane things of life that make us most human, and frankly most interesting. It’s experiences and lessons learned along the way that keep us human. I recently read The Farmer’s Wife by Kathryn Hamrick. She gave the book to me as a host gift for staying in my house for a week. I think I got the better deal in that exchange. She too, does a beautiful job of taking ordinary everyday stuff and turning it into interesting short stories. I can only hope to match her wit.

Readers who knew Ruthanne will see her personality pop through in nearly every story, and those who know me may find a surprise or two. Ruthanne said more than once, I’m glad I’ve lived my life. She truly meant that and wasn’t about to let life pass her by for any reason. When I met her, I too, began to appreciate all the things life had to offer. Ruthanne introduced me to hiking and backpacking, something I had wanted to do since I was a teenager. I wanted to backpack in the Adirondacks, and she made that happen. I eventually learned how to plan and lead backpacking trips for others.

Not only did we do planned activities, there was a fair amount of serendipity in our lives and spur-of-the-moment activities. It wasn’t uncommon for her to ask, You want to go see a movie? at 7:10 p.m., knowing that the movie started at 7:30. I’d give her the list of phone numbers of local movie theaters, and she would call around to see what was being offered, while I somehow managed to change clothes quickly and grab my billfold, and then off we’d go. Once, we walked through the door of the Varsity Theater at 7:29 and the door wasn’t yet shut behind us when she said, We’re here, you can start the movie now. The theater owner laughed out loud at that, as if we all thought nothing could happen until we ordinary women arrived on the scene.

Another time we were in Halifax and asked the woman at the front desk of our hotel what kinds of activities were available in the area. She mentioned something that would take us about an hour or two north of there. Okay, then. We’ll go up there tomorrow, Ruthanne announced. I wasn’t startled at all. I never knew what to expect and never knew what was coming next. That was simply everyday life with Ruthanne.

The woman all but fainted. With her hand on her heart and her voice considerably higher, she asked, Without a plan? You aren’t going up there without knowing where you’ll be staying or making other plans, are you?

Ruthanne’s nonchalant answer was, Sure, we can manage that.

One fall, we were out in the yard and the neighbor asked where we’d been all summer. You should have rented the place out; you were here so little. Perhaps he was right. Personally, I thought we should forgo the house entirely, rent an enormous storage unit, and live in a small apartment. Life might have been easier. Ruthanne often said, Home ownership is overrated. But she needed a place for all her stuff, and she had plenty of it to fill an entire house.

Ruthanne stood at the opened doors of life and might just as well have said to me, Come, this is the beginning of our journey together, and what a ride it’s going to be. This new world had so many opportunities, I sometimes ached for a moment to sit down. Oh, but she wasn’t done with me. In addition to travel, she showed me the world of classical music, the arts, theater, a new family, and gazillions of friends. She’d traveled all over the world and was eager to show it all to me. Our grandson Wyatt said, If I ever get lost, I hope I’m with Nana Ruthanne, because she’s been everywhere and knows everyone.

In our thirty years together, we made our lives as full and beautiful as we could. Enjoy reading as you journey through our lives together. I hope these stories encourage you to put on paper or video the adventures of your own lives. It only takes a bit of creativity to turn the stuff of everyday living into memorable stories.

Wings

I wish

My heart had wings

And could fly

To your side

To embrace you

With love

Patricia L. Headley

Letters

I hadn’t intended to cry today, but curiosity made me open those old letters we exchanged during our first four years as a couple. Even after we managed to move to the same town at the same time, the letters, cards, emails, and notes continued. My eyes and heart went soft, simply looking at her handwriting on the envelopes. Who would ever have guessed handwriting to be a tearjerker?

At the time the letters were written and received, they were mere correspondence. Now they were precious jewels carelessly stored in a paper sack and tossed to the back of the closet. I noticed that some greeting cards were mailed to my workplace and sometimes they showed up on the kitchen counter. Memories started rushing into my brain-memories of better times, of a budding relationship, of the opportunity to actually live together, and of all the things we managed to do together throughout the thick and thin of life’s offerings.

I knew this was going to be a flashback to sweeter times. What I hadn’t expected was the roller coaster of emotions I would experience while reading a sack full of memories. Still, I stood there for the longest time reading and reliving the story of our lives. Remembering so many things long forgotten-the romantic that Ruthanne was, or how generous she was with praise, money, and possessions. I let the tears flow, I smiled, I laughed, I ached. But I kept reading-sometimes through copious tears. I took frequent breaks because my heart couldn’t take it all in at once.

I spent a whole weekend going through those letters and used excerpts from them to launch several of these stories. Other source materials include old calendars, medical records, emails, notes, letters from friends, and of course, my own memories.

Serendipity

My real life started the day I met Ruthanne Harstad in mid-August 1985. There was no kiss, but I felt like Sleeping Beauty anyway, waking from a thirty-eight-year restless sleep. As a nontraditional female student with kids in high school, I wasn’t sure I actually belonged in a college classroom. But here I was watching this bright, witty, competent teacher impart knowledge to all fifty students in that class. I had a whole class period to do a character study on a person I would soon discover was a thirty-three-year-old brand-new teacher, fresh from her first master’s degree. She’d been a nontraditional student too. I saw capable hands on well-sculpted arms. She stood at the chalkboard, reached to the far left and wrote with her left hand until she passed her own body, then moved the chalk to her right hand and kept on writing until again reaching her limit to the right. Most students never noticed these details.

What a life we were to have, but it was serendipity that allowed me to meet Ruthanne at all. At the community college (Indian Hills in Ottumwa, Iowa) I was attending, I perused the college catalog for a variety of class choices. It listed class names, a brief description of the class, and the last name of the instructor. I knew none of those teachers, or whether they were male or female. There were half a dozen literature classes listed, but one name stood out. Harstad, I said out loud.

Then I said the name again. A third time, I said it for the mere pleasure of hearing the sound. Harstad, that sounds like a good sturdy name.

I let that sink in for a while. I like that name. I’ll take that literature class.

And yes, sturdy is the word I actually used. I walked into that class the first day, apparently a minute or so late, and had to take the only seat left in the room. On that first day, Ruthanne wore a marine blue dress, buttoned to the waist, with a woven self-belt and a full skirt; a delicious presentation. She wore sensible shoes, which I found out later were necessary because many dressy shoes don’t accommodate orthotics. Her light brown hair was just short of shoulder length, combed into a sort of pageboy—shiny and clean, parted in the middle. Her cute face emanated wholesomeness. And the sight of those hands sent shivers down my spine and continued to do so for the next thirty years. I knew right away that I had chosen the right literature class, even though I chose it in an unorthodox method.

Her wit came through like the sun on a clean window. She exuded confidence, though she later admitted she was as nervous as a lone backpacker facing a poisonous snake with a bad attitude, because it was her first class as a newly hired teacher. We students didn’t detect it.

The second time I saw her, she walked into the long narrow classroom, paced off the front half of it, or about twenty-five students, and said to us, All of you come with me. The rest, stay here. Another teacher will be here shortly.

Along with twenty-four other students—including Linda, another nontraditional student—I followed her into an empty classroom, and she commenced teaching like she’d been doing it for years. The other twenty-five students stayed put. What choice did they have? This was Ruthanne’s third day on the job and already she was petitioning the dean for a smaller class size and decent working conditions.

Fifty students in a literature class are way too many. Grading papers alone would allow me no time to devote to my other four classes, she told the dean.

I loved that class, and I adored her, though every time we met in the hallways, there was a traffic jam of words crowding my throat, preventing me from saying much. Hundreds of words wanting to get out. Wanting to say something intelligent. Wanting to let her know I was interested. My heart always did backflips and then tried to stand on its own two feet without wobbling. It never bothered her any. She always knew what to say, and for the longest time I let her conversation carry both of us.

Linda and I continued to sit near the front of the classroom after the move. It eventually dawned on me that we were two of the four nontraditional students in the class, serious about our studies, and much appreciated by this serious new teacher. Linda, Ruthanne, and I quickly became friends.

Ruthanne organized get-togethers with her nontraditional students. She scheduled volleyball, racquetball, book discussion groups, and other ways to spend time together. We always enjoyed each other’s company.

Ruthanne spent more time grading papers of students who attended class, wrote well, contributed to class discussion, turned homework in on time, and appeared to be serious about learning. She believed the old Chinese proverb that said, Teachers open the door, but you must walk through it yourself. I always thought my writing skills were severely lacking because of all the red marks Ruthanne put on my papers. I felt stupid, sure of flunking this class.

No, Ruthanne said. The more I mark it up, the more I believe in your potential, and I want you to learn from that. All serious students get that extra attention from me. I believe in giving students as much effort as they give me.

Years later, she encountered a student who had attended maybe three classes all semester. He asked how his grades were doing. Trust me, she said, your F is secure.

We all learned right away that this was not to be an easy class. There was a mountain (or two) of reading, papers to be written, and oral reports to be given. But we serious students worked hard, studied hard, and came out with good grades. Eventually, Linda’s son Craig took a class from Ruthanne as well. Ruthanne sent him a gift card, and he sent a thank you note, adding, I don’t know if I’m gonna survive next year if I have to take another one of your classes.

We all felt this way, but Ruthanne accelerated my journey of learning new things. Here was a strong female who was full of life and willing to share all that with me. Despite having just completed her first master’s degree, she was already working on an Ed. S, and she would eventually earn another master’s—all while working for a living. She also maintained an active social life. She left me feeling like a sloth. How would I ever keep up with this pace?

I wasn’t looking down the road to more education. An associate degree was all I aspired to at that time. But she opened the doors to all sorts of possibilities, including a bachelor’s and a master’s for me as well. I hardly had time to blink, let alone keep up with all our physical and mental activities, attend school, then find employment and maintain a normal life.

My problem was that Ruthanne was always a quick learner. I definitely was not, and I well knew it. She spent ten minutes studying for her next class period and passed with flying colors. I earned A’s too, but mine were hard and sometimes painfully earned. I always got there, but my brain was never on the fast track.

Will you drive me to class so I can study on the way? she asked one day. The studying was for a Spanish class and the drive was less than ten minutes. How does she do that? I wondered.

We sent little notes to each other daily, sometimes two or three times a day, writing not only the date at the top, but the time of day each was written. We connived to see each other in the halls